Half the World Away

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

When we reach the hotel, Tom says, ‘You want to go out and eat?’

I think of the constant noise, of the struggle to decipher a menu, the chaos of it all. ‘Not really. I’ll just eat here.’

‘OK, so let’s do that. An hour?’ he says.

The hotel is like a cocoon, calm and quiet, reassuring. Bland, perhaps, but bland is, oh, so welcome.

Over dinner, we keep coming back to Mr Du’s discomfort, Peter Dunne’s reprimand, how much power or influence the consulate actually has, and whether or not Superintendent Yin is any good at what he’s doing. We share a bottle of Great Wall Cabernet Sauvignon, made in China, which is surprisingly good. Tom orders a second.

‘If Mrs Tang leaves Chengdu on Sunday afternoon and isn’t back until Thursday night, she can’t have been Lori’s first subject,’ I say.

‘Not your general run-of-the-mill hobby, taxidermy,’ Tom says. ‘Very popular with the Victorians.’ He laughs. ‘Lori follows this account on Twitter, Crap Taxidermy. I’d show you but…’

But Twitter is banned.

‘All these bizarre creatures,’ he says, ‘atrocious workmanship. Some of the poses.’ He pulls a face, grimacing, exposes his teeth, closes one eye. I smile.

‘Sometimes you can’t even tell what animal it is. Let’s hope Mrs Tang has the knack.’

‘Trust Lori to find someone like that on the doorstep,’ I say.

‘It’ll be good for her to keep up her photography,’ Tom says. ‘She’s got a great eye. They don’t hand out firsts to just anyone.’ He fills our glasses. ‘Mind you, these days, everyone’s David Bailey.’

‘She can write too,’ I say. ‘The blog’s great. It’s not like she has to pick one job and stick at it for the next twenty years.’

‘Portfolio career,’ Tom says.

‘Which you had before there was a name for it,’ I say.

‘Believe it was called “mucking about” back then. Playing silly buggers.’

‘Your dad’s phrase?’

His eyes darken.

‘Does he know we’re here?’ I say.

Tom’s mouth twitches. ‘I left a message,’ he says. I wait but he doesn’t elaborate. Clearly his relationship with Francis has not improved.

‘You did all right for yourself,’ I say. ‘Well, mostly.’ I can’t name all Tom’s enterprises but they included a web start-up, a wine bar, a house-sitting and dog-walking agency, a holiday rental scheme in Portugal and a home-computer repair service.

‘We won’t mention the guesthouse,’ he says.

I groan. Lori worked there as a chambermaid and dogsbody in the summer holidays when she was sixteen. It was in Whitby, on the east coast. Tom bought it cheap with the intention of doing it up after that first season, building the business and selling it on. But once a start was made on the work, structural problems came to light and it was cheaper to condemn the property than fix it.

Tom pours a drink.

‘Great summer job for her,’ I say, ‘but I could never quite see you doling out full English to the guests.’

‘It did get a bit Fawlty Towers at times,’ he says.

‘Will you carry on with the property business or are you bored?’

‘Yes, and yes.’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve not come across anything else that grabs me. It’s going well so I’ll stick at it, put some money aside, travel and see more of the world.’

That plunges me straight back into the present. The glow from the wine fades and there is an ache at my temples. I can feel the weight of something bearing down on me.

‘It’s good to meet her friends,’ I say, ‘see where she’s living.’ Trying to salvage something, to pre-empt any more considered discussion of our situation. Pollyanna.

Tom’s face is serious. The look in his eyes may be pity or criticism but I disregard it. ‘You have a fag,’ I tell him. ‘I’m going to ring home.’ He opens his mouth but I keep moving, swing my bag up onto my shoulder, not wanting to hear what he might say about Lori, about what’s happened to her, about being realistic, about facing up to things.

‘Come to mine when you’re finished,’ I say, ‘and we’ll call Edward and do the press-conference statement.’

‘If Tom’s charging around like a bull at a gate no wonder the cops are pissed off,’ Nick says, when I tell him what’s happened.

‘It’s not like that,’ I say. ‘The guy was really dismissive, then called the guards on us. Anyway, we have the press conference sorted. Tom’s going to speak to Edward and work out what to say.’

‘You should do it,’ Nick says.

‘What?’

‘You should talk. It’ll be more powerful,’ he says.

‘I don’t know, father-daughter?’ I say.

‘Except you only need one journalist to latch onto the fact that Tom pissed off when Lori was a baby to taint the message.’

I hadn’t thought of it like that. Does it matter? Is Nick right or does he resent the fact that Tom is here and he isn’t? ‘I’ll see what Edward says. How is everything?’

He exhales heavily and says, ‘Isaac’s been sick again.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Twice in the night.’

‘Is he going to school?’ I say.

‘Yes, he seemed all right this morning. Ate his Krispies.’

‘We can’t go on with it like this,’ I say. ‘The GP told me we could ask for a referral. Maybe we should do that now.’

‘Can we do it over the phone?’ Nick says.

‘I’ve no idea. You could ring them and ask. Is Finn OK?’

‘He’s fine.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m OK,’ he says. But he sounds flat. It can’t be easy, the pressure of worrying about Lori, the demands of the campaign, holding the fort at home, on top of everything else.

‘Two paragraphs max,’ Edward says, ‘a few sentences. Start with Lori, her personality, her qualities. You want to give her an identity, make people warm to her and see her as an individual. Say something about China or Chengdu and how she liked it – that’ll help appeal to Chinese viewers. Next paragraph, keep it simple: if Lori is listening, please get in touch, and appeal to anyone who knows anything, no matter how small, to come forward.’

‘Does it matter who says it?’ Tom asks.

‘Not at all.’

I think of Nick’s advice.

‘How do we decide?’ I say to Tom, when the call is over.

‘You want to do it?’ he says.

I think of the pressure, the attention, of trying to get my words straight. I think about breaking down. I think of Lori. ‘Yes,’ I say.

‘OK.’

We compose the text and Tom types it up. ‘Lori is a lively, loving girl, a brilliant sister to her two young brothers. She’s a photographer and a teacher, who works hard and likes to spend time with her friends. Lori has been keeping a blog about her travels and when she got to China she fell in love with the place. Lori, if you hear this, please get in touch, and if anyone watching has heard from Lori or knows anything that might help us find her, no matter how small, please contact the police or the helpline number.’

Tom checks the spelling, then emails it to Peter Dunne and to Edward.

When Tom has gone, I pull back the double glazing, let in the city noise. It is a still night, the sky a bruised purple. I listen to all the sounds and try to unpick them, to separate them out and name each one. I fight to hear what is beneath, beyond, that wall of sound. If I could just hear her laugh, that joyous, delighted, abrupt laugh. That burst of pleasure. Or the little murmur she makes in her throat when she considers something.

I stand there until I grow stiff, my back aching, then give in.